


Timer

by Finaiarel



Series: Roleplay Drabbles [2]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: M/M, Soulmate AU, even though i'm a history major, probably not historically accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 04:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16210979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finaiarel/pseuds/Finaiarel
Summary: TIMER: A timer on each person’s wrist counts down to the moment they will meet. Either this is with them from the moment they were born or they can choose to get one around the age of 13, it’s up to the writers.





	Timer

Heba had never paid much attention to the timer on his wrist. Compared to everything else in his life - his training as a scribe, supporting his mother and sister, and waiting for word from his father - it had seemed of little importance. He focused on his studies, ran errands for his mother, and when he could he played with little Neferet. He had only  _just_ finished his schooling, years of work put in to finally be given the right to become a full-fledged scribe. His apprenticeship was at last over, and as he walked out of the school for the last time he knew that  _now_ he would finally be considered an adult, able to find his own employment and look after his mother and sister.

He did not head home immediately, instead choosing to wander toward the bazaar near the palace gates. It was always crowded there, with shopkeepers shouting their wares and the scent of spices and fresh-baked bread on the air. It had been a long while since Heba had been able to make time to come here - usually his classes took up all of his daylight hours. He wanders from stall to stall, just wanting to look at the wares. He did not have the money to buy.

Everything is fine until a hand grasps his arm, and he looks up into the face of one of the royal guards. He blinks, startled, and attempts to pull away.

“Your majesty, you cannot sneak out of the-” the guard begins to say, but cuts himself short with furrowed brows as he catches sight of Heba’s face.

“I am  _not_ who you think I am,” Heba protests, trying to pull his arm out of the guard’s firm grip. He is not nearly strong enough. “I haven’t done anything wrong, so please let go!”

The guard shakes his head, tightening his grip on the poor scribe’s arm. “What witchcraft is this? You  _little brat._ You dare to wear the face of a god?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Heba cries, looking around frantically. They are beginning to attract the attention of onlookers, but no one steps forward to help him.

“You are coming with me,” his captor growls, glancing around before shoving past several civilians, dragging Heba through the crowd and up the steps to the palace. No matter how much Heba drags his heels or tries to break free, the grip on his arm is unwavering. 

Dread curls deep in Heba’s stomach, and he can feel tears springing to his eyes. He had been taught to avoid the Great House at all costs. His mother had always said that so long as you stayed out of the pharaoh’s way and kept the peace, you would be safe. Now he was being drug right into the heart of the pharaoh’s home, and he could not understand why. “Please, let me go! I haven’t done anything wrong, I swear!”

“The pharaoh will decide that, since it is his face you’ve stolen.” That is all Heba can get out of the guard, and he can’t make sense of that.

‘ _stolen the pharaoh’s face? i’ve never even seen him!’_

He is forced to follow as he leads him through the golden halls to the throne room. Everywhere he looks, there are nobles and courtiers, servants and slaves, but hardly anyone pauses to even look at him. No one will stop and help. The guard soon arrives outside of massive golden doors which stand open, but Heba cannot get a view inside. He exchanges a few words with the guards positioned outside, low and furtive, and the pounding in Heba’s ears keeps him from catching anything important.

The guard starts forward once more, dragging Heba into the massive chamber by the arm. He keeps Heba constantly reeling, his long strides making it hard to keep up, especially with the way he jerks Heba’s arm to keep him off balance. He stumbles forward with a gasp, barely keeping his feet under him, and looks around wildly as he is brought forward before a stone dais and thrown to the floor.

Heba’s wrists bark in pain as he catches himself just in time, his nose inches from the floor. His heart is pounding in his ears, and it makes it difficult to follow the conversation. He is  _terrified,_  but has enough sense to know that he must be in the throne room, and before the pharaoh - the leader of upper and lower Khemet, king of all of Egypt and a  _living god._ He keeps his head bowed low, arms trembling as he supplants himself before the throne without a word. He does not want to be here. He had never wanted to be here in his life.

He strains to calm his breathing, trying to follow the conversation past the panic welling up in his veins. A low exchange of voices, and then footsteps. Not the heavy step of the guards, but the soft step of one who carries himself with grace.

“Rise.” An order from directly in front of him. The voice is calm and authoritative, self-assured. It does not leave room for disobedience.

Heba’s limbs move on their own, shaking like a leaf but still obeying that order. He pushes himself from the ground, rising carefully to his knees and keeping his eyes trained on the feet of the one before him.

A hand, smooth and soft, cups his chin and forces his gaze upward. Crimson eyes gaze into his, that perfect face examining his own with lifted brows. There’s no anger there - only mild curiosity. He tilts Heba’s chin this way and that, examines his eyes and soft cheeks with a small smirk.

“You could be my twin.” That beautiful voice again, calm and slightly amused. “What is your name?”

He forces his voice out, his pulse racing beneath the pharaoh’s delicate grip on his neck. “H-Heba, your majesty.”

“Heba…” he says it like he’s testing it on his tongue, a smile slowly spreading across his lips. “What are you, Heba?”

“I’m a scribe, your majesty. Or… I will be. I just graduated today.”

“Congratulations, Heba,” the pharaoh murmurs, voice smooth as silk. Heba swallows dryly, nervousness rising in his stomach again. He cannot read this man  _at all_ and he is terrified of what the king may do. He knows nothing of the pharaoh’s temperament. 

“Now, I have never seen anyone with such a close resemblance to someone else who is not a relation. But I also know my father sired no bastards,” the pharaoh muses, leaning in till his breath is a ghost across Heba’s lips. “So then, what are you, little one? Have the gods sent you to me?”

“I-I’m just a scribe,” Heba blurts, violet eyes wide. “My father served as a scribe for the army, and my mother lives here in the city. I-I don’t know why I… why I look like you, your majesty.” The last part is soft, almost a plea.

The pharaoh hums softly, that little smile fading from his expression as he backs away just a bit. Heba immediately breathes easier, relieved to have the king out of his space though his grip on his chin remains. 

“…I see,” he murmurs, considering for a moment as he runs his eyes over the other. “You are smaller, and paler, but overall you are almost completely my likeness. Show me your arm,” the pharaoh commands, pointing to Heba’s left wrist. It is where everyone’s soul mark is located. Most keep it concealed, but…

Heba swallows softly and reveals the timer on his wrist, fully expecting it to still be running as always. He had never really kept up with the time on it, had known the date was growing closer, but hadn’t found the time to care with his efforts to graduate and everything else pressing in on him. But when he lifts his wrist to the pharaoh’s eyes, the timer is at  _seven seconds._

The king’s eyes widen, and Heba watches as he removes one of the large golden bangles from his own wrist. A matching timer, inked in the same black as every other human on this earth from the moment they are born into the world. 

_four seconds._

The pharaoh’s eyes flick to Heba, and in slow motion, Heba watches helplessly as the pharaoh’s hand closes around his wrist. He pulls it to him, watches with that same curiosity from earlier as the timer ticks down.

_three. two. one._

_zero._

 He breathes in shallowly, meets the pharaoh’s gaze. He is wearing a look that says he has the scribe precisely where he wants him. 

“Oh, little Heba,” he purrs, and Heba can feel it then - the irresistible pull between them.  _“i don’t think you know a thing about what you are. but you will.”_


End file.
